CHAOS BEFORE PREDICTABILITY

It would seem that love knows no bounds. Not content with a normal marriage (opposite and same sex), some have looked further afield to find their lifelong companion.

These are the five most bizarre marriages I’ve seen in recent years:

GOAT: Admittedly, this wasn’t that man’s first choice. But after being caught making sweet beastly love to the creature, the Sudanese gentleman was forced to take its hoof in holy matrimony. I’m quite sure it’s been eaten by now.

DOG: Not unlike our goatly groom, this man opted for a canine wife to avoid a curse due to stoning two other dogs. Personally, for doing that, I’d have opted for beating him to death with his own dismembered limbs, but that’s just me. (I like dogs).

PILLOW: Some people cuddle their pillow. Others get a little too close. For this man, he wanted the real deal. And with a face drawn on and a dress attached, he proudly gave his feather filled bride a post “I Do” smooch. He’ll be swapping her in years to come for a polyester filled alternative.

VIDEO GAME: Gamers can get a little obsessed with the characters. Some tattoo them on their skin. Others might pretend to be them. This man marries them. Having met on Nintendo DS game Love Plus, he learnt her pixels were the only ones for him. Not too sure what happens when Nintendo bring out a new handheld console.

KATIE PRICE: Whilst the above can all be explained with at least some form of twisted logic, I have no words that can justify this.

When a copy of Shadows Falls' album Threads of Life cam into my posession, myself and the man behind Audio Antihero couldn't help but laugh at the artwork that featured throughout it. But nothing compared to the very, very unhappy looking man that was lurking beneath the disc. He's so, very sad.

Here is my interpretation of the images found. It's most likely what the artist was thinking. (click to enlarge)

All it took was a banana and little, useless Eddie Wimp became the questionably mighty Bananaman. For Spiderman, just a bite from a radioactive spider (who hasn’t had that). So it made me wonder whether coffee can turn me (or anyone else) into a superhero. I like to think so.

A simple spoonful obviously won’t cut it. I know this, because if it did, then there’d be a whole lot of us flying around destroying villains like The Penguin, Sandman and Sarah Palin. But if an exact amount of a specific coffee (probably also radioactive) was consumed at the exact right temperature, it might just have the properties required to induce super-powers.

I’d create a formula for this, but my maths isn’t quite that advanced. Instead, I draw a picture (as seen above) that should act as proof that the theory would work.

However, I’ve had to factor in some variables. For instance, biscuits. Would it affect the effect if biscuits enter the mix. Much like the fly entering the machine in The Fly, would a biscuit increase/alter the outcome of coffee’s mutation? The wrong kind, say a pink wafer, could transform the lucky coffee drinker into a super-villain. This is a problem.

Cake could also have a similar effect, though creating an even mightier super-hero. Perhaps with the power to go invisible or shoot muskrats from their finger tips.

What of jaffa cakes? This could cause immense confusion. The coffee wouldn’t know which was to go – good or evil – and instead turn them into a super-hero sidekick with a gooey centre. And let’s face it, no on wants to be Robin.

If you wish to take part in this experiment, get yourself some very precise scales and increase the coffee dosage but a milligram at a time until it works. Plutonium might increase the possibilities of gaining super powers (or death)


DISCLAIMER: Please don’t blame me if you do actually try this and you A. can’t sleep B. die C. run out of money from buying loads of coffee. I was only joking.

Anger. Stress. Resentment. All well renowned within the workplace. But have you ever been annoyed with a full gravy boat in your hand? No. Then my friends, welcome to the simple solution to creating a better environment for the nation’s tense offices.

Coffee can stay, of course. But say goodbye to those telephones. How much help were they doing anyway? You can’t pour their incessant ring over a plate of sausages. Whereas the possibilities with gravy are virtually limitless, if you ignore all the things they can’t do like sign language and kayak.

Delicious as the brown stuff may be, it has some not very well reported stress-relieving properties. I won’t bog you down in science-fact. Essentially, it’s so tasty and improves food to such a degree that it’s near impossible to be unhappy when you have gravy. Your boss could be screaming bloody bagpuss at you, but you wouldn’t care. Why should you? You’ve got gravy. Pour some on the boss’ plate, and WHAM, silence reigns.

Let’s just weigh it up against other dark, drinkable liquids. Whiskey, rum, coffee, Bovril, chocolate milkshakes. Seeing the pattern. All great. So, for the health of office workers in the UK, get some Bisto in the staff room, chuck the phones out the windows and give two fingers to a world without Yorkshire puddings.

I might be a fan of the sinister and macabre, but I also like animals a whole lot. With this in mind, finding dead critters in jars didn’t instil an immense sense of comfort within me as I entered Islington’s Albert & Pearl. It’s fortunate that I was about to watch Benjamin Shaw at the bar’s folk night ‘Softly Softly’.

From the name, I guessed I wouldn’t be hearing many blast beats. It’s a completely acoustic night, which meant no mics either, just the singers and their strings.

Eventually, the guy with a camera that just never stopped going off throughout the previous set took his leave. Exactly just how many photos do you need of the side of one person’s face? A hell of a lot, apparently. So, with a click free room, Benjamin Shaw got to the stool and opened with some trademark dry humour, “I’ve been more comfortable than this before. This song’s about wishing you’d stayed at home”.

Generating a lot of well deserved laughs for his sardonically sharp lyrics, he had room full of ears hanging onto his every word. Twined with the rhythmic melancholy of his guitar work, he played a perfect set of songs that would rightfully deserve a place in a top indie film – something I’ve often considered when listening to his EPs.

Grudgingly offering an encore, he ends with the line “I’ve forgotten the next line – but it was probably something really good”. I don’t doubt him.

His debut EP ‘I’ve Got the Pox, the Pox is What I’ve Got’ is now available from Audio Antihero to fill your ears with HERE. Enjoy x

Tall, dark and unashamedly creamy, Guinness is one of the finest drinks a person (or penguin) can buy with their money. Properly poured, it ranks as the greatest thing to put in your mouth that isn’t a pie. But every year, millions of people see it as a ‘novelty’ item so they can pretend to be Irish.

Guinness is not the novelty item – you are. If you don’t appreciate its brilliance on the other 364 (or 365 on a leap year) days of the year, why hammer it down on this one day? Just drink your usual imported lager, sit in the corner and shout the generic obscenities that have been dying to escape your mouth all night long.

Meanwhile, everyone that actually does love the black stuff doesn’t have quite so long to wait for all the other pints of Guinness to be poured that won’t even be properly worshipped.

Happy St. Patrick's Day - and in the words of Super Hans, “No logo in the foam”.

“Where am I?” was going to be the second question Tim asked himself. However, he was currently distracted with the more poignant question of “where are my legs?” He was almost certain before he went to sleep he had exactly two of them. Now, at best, there was half. Had he perhaps taken the time to look around the strange room he’d awoken in, he might have noticed one was resting upon the smooth blue cloth of a pool table in the corner.

From a quick scan of the small, damp basement, Tim could tell it was now day outside through light seeping in through the tiny window in the top corner. He was supposed to have a date tonight, which he was almost definitely going to miss. Aside from the mobility issues, he was rather inconveniently handcuffed to a hook in the wall. Taking this in, he pondered his options.

Mid-ponder, he heard footsteps. Slowly, they trudged down the wooden stairs, forcing audible creaks from the rotten timber. He was about to meet the man, woman or other that had put him in this state, as much as he hoped it might be a policeman or Chuck Norris. Of course, such fantasies don’t come true and in moments he was being looked in the eyes by his captor – this maverick limb thief.

Dressed in torn black jeans, converse and a Popeye t-shirt that was just one size too small, his tormentor look down upon him. He wasn’t tall, but the hate in his eyes made up for his stature. It sank deep into Tim, penetrating his every muscle (except the ones in his legs, which were now on the other side of the room.

Silence reigned, until the man conquered it. “Don’t stand up”, he said with a dry, flat tone that showed little emotion. He knelt down to tie his laces, eyes on Tim at all times. He had an air of suspicion, as if Tim was the kid next door caught stealing gnomes from the garden.

But what had Tim done? As far as he knew he was an innocent. Racking his brains he couldn’t work out what it was. He was a virgin, so he hadn’t slept with this man’s wife, if he had one. He’d never stolen anything or hurt anyone. In his impenetrable shyness, he’d never even managed to exchange a cross-word with even a shadow. So why did this man seem to hate him so?

“Do you know what day it is?” said the man, glaring at Tim for an answer. Begging his body for a breath, he managed a reply, “It’s. It’s Tuesday?” Hoping it was indeed the right answer and unsure of the consequences if it wasn’t.

“Yes, that’s right. Tuesday”. The man spat the word as if it were a dirty term. “Do you know what happens every other Tuesday, lad?” Tim did not, but he wasn’t keen on letting the man know.

“Men come to pick up the recycling?” guessed Tim.

“No, that’s Wednesdays!” replied the man, clearly displeased with Tim’s apparent lack of knowledge. “I’ll tell you what happens every other Tuesday.”

Before launching into an explanation of this fortnightly event, he pulled across a small, wooden chair and sat down, causing his jeans to rise up to expose what Tim was sure were Sonic the Hedgehog socks.

“Every other Tuesday, I find one of you… you nicer than nice folk. I find you, take your from your slumber and kill you.”

“Oh” said Tim “that’s not particularly nice, is it?”

“No it is not!” replied his assailant “it’s not meant to be nice. If I was aiming to be nice, I’d bring you a lasagne or wash your hair. I’ll leave the niceness to you, Mister ‘I’ve never done anything bad in my life’. I know your type: always courteous, always polite. Holding doors open for grannies and feeding ducks by the hand. I see you lot everywhere and every time I do, I wretch.”

“Do you not like niceness?” asked Tim.

“The occasional bit of generosity, fine. I’ll give a pound to the blind and I’ll smile at a baby. But it’s you folk – the non-stop angel-faced ones, making the world think you’re whiter than white. But I know your secret, don’t think I don’t.”

“That I’m a virgin?” said Tim

“That you’re a what? No. I meant. Wait, what you’re about 24/25? I’ll almost feel bad for killing you before you managed to get laid, but that’ll pass. No, you’re darkest secret. You demon.”

“A what now? I’m a demon? The only demon I’ve ever been was a Speed Demon, in my head when I listened to Michael Jackson and that doesn’t count – does it?”

“Don’t lie to me, demon. You lie just like the last.” But it was too late for Tim to hear these words as that were barked at him, because his head was now several feet from the rest of his body.

Cleaning his collectable Urak Hai sword frantically before the blood tarnished the surface, the man in the Popeye shirt made his was gravely out of the basement to get his recycling ready for tomorrow.

The George Inn: I haven’t been to this pub since I was 18 as part of a failed pub crawl. Now I’m back to see the nimble fingered Jason Steele and Nancy Wallace get their folk on, celebrating the release of his new album Fire Begot Ash.

Two sevenths of the folk collective The Owl Service, Jason and Nancy are both unique and individual talents. Having listened to both extensively, I knew they’d sound great live. I was right (for once).

Before they got started, the singer from Straw Bear Band filled the room with his powerfully idiosyncratic voice in a rendition of The Werewolf. I’d seen videos of this online, but live and acapella, it was (to be blunt) mind-meltingly fucking awesome. It reminded me of the awe I felt seeing Saul Williams break into a spoken word rendition of Coded Language.

After a number of the Owl Service played out, Nancy Wallace took to the floor. Concertina in hand and framed by the enormous fire place, we could have been in a different century. That’s if you ignore all the microphones, projector and modern aluminium fabricated chairs – but we’ll mentally Photoshop them out.

Her voice was truly beautiful. Complemented by haunting guitar work and concertina tunes, it created an unforgettable atmosphere that carried on throughout Jason Steel’s set.

Taking the limelight in-front of a copy of his newly released album (released on label Rif Mountain and available at all good place you’ll find if you Google it), Jason entered into his first track accompanied with a Ukulele. Throughout his set he provided his musically capabilities, switching between guitars, the ukulele and the banjo – upon which he played and finished on my personal favourite, the Lycanthrope Stomp.

Aside from the banjo and a damn good voice, what really draws me to Jason’s music is his exceptional finger-picking. Up there with some of my blues favourites, Skip James and Mississippi John Hurt, his intricate plucking was a pleasure to see first hand.

Give him a Google and hear for yourself and whilst you’re at it, check out Rif Mountain (previously Midwich in some form I believe) as all the bands are worth hearing.

I recall a time in Asda many moons back when I discovered a box of cream filled cakes – the painfully delicious in appearance kind of cakes that scream at you until you’ve devoured them. This particular box of wonders was advertised at buy one get one free (BOGOF). To not take advantage would be a crime, I thought.

My partner in crime did not agree though. “Who can eat two boxes of cakes? It’s just not necessary”. “YOU’RE not necessary”, were my particular thoughts. What kind of scoundrel would purposefully buy a single box of cakes when they could have a second free? No kind that I wish to be associated with.

So I did it. I bought both. What’s more, I ate them. Sure, it was unnecessary calories, but I don’t care about that. The alternative would have been far more terrible. Have you ever passed up on a BOGOF offer and simply just taken one and left the freebie abandoned on the shelf? Of course not.

If, by some madness, such an event were to occur, all hell would quite literally break loose. For decades, demons have hidden in the stock room of every supermarket around the nation, just waiting for such a foolish affair to take place.

You see, it’s their devious trap. First they plants the wickedly tempting deal, then through gender magazines and day time TV they push the importance of guilt and moderation. They created the person that can buy a tube of Pringles and not eat them all. They developed the mindset that says “I don’t need to eat the whole packet of biscuits, I only need one”. And one day, such dangerous thinking will lead to someone purchasing that single box of cakes.

When that day comes, we’re all in trouble. Bourbons will be replaced by lettuce; fried chicken will transform into couscous and all muffins will turn into a single oat. So, unless you crave such an anti-utopia, bow to the might of the BOGOF and double your joy.

You could say a number of my posts haven’t been particularly, well, serious. Obviously I do believe Bromley’s the centre of all evil and careless wearing of socks can tear the fabric of reality, but I also believe this: if cancer was a person, I’d beat it to death with its own shoes.

As a writer, I take the luxury to make demons real and punish them accordingly. This at least prevents me from running people over. But I have never known a demon so contemptible as the unholy C.

It’s pretty much a given that everyone, in some way or other, will meet it. When it entered my life (not me personally) – after getting reasonably drunk – I ran. And with every step I imagined beating it with something rather large and solid. It helped. However, now there’s a group, fronted by a lady whose boots are unquestionably made for kicking the shit out of cancer. Her group is called KickCancer and it brings people affected together so, as a collective, they can do just as it says on the tin.

Basically, what you need to do is bend down, super glue some 6” nails to your shoes and take one, big swing. To do so, visit this lady’s page and DONATE. Alternatively, there’s also a Facebook and Twitter page for those interested.

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Don’t think I don’t see you
Just because you can’t be seen.
Too obscene to over see what
You have done to me.
More importantly, she
She who – who you invaded
You Trojan
Scoundrel!
In her you dwell.
You put her through hell and back
Time and time again.

Fiend! I know your name.
Refrain your position
Put down your sword. Leave my castle
Take your hoard. Be gone!

In my head, I make you real.
Reality hurt more so I sought surreal
Here I could hurt you a 1000 times
Fire and brimstone for all your crimes.
So come out to play and take my hand
I raise you
You are no more
I see you
You are no more
Three Kings, an ace
And a spade to bury you
You are no more.

It’s night. Sleep is for the dead, the old and koalas. We need coffee, but living in London’s suburbs you learn a valuable lesson – no where sells it after dark. Surely this is when it’s needed most.

Don’t tell me it’s not true, I’ve seen films That makes it almost fact. People are ALWAYS drinking coffee somewhere throughout the night. So why will Bromley and Croydon not allow this? Before setting out for the hunt, we settle for McDonald’s claim to warm, brown beverages.

“What is this horse-shit” was my immediate reaction. This was not improved when I find what I think is a prize tap on the side of the cup. But no – that’s a ‘loyalty card’ saying I can get my 7th cup for free. I’ve had one cup, I’ve made my mistake and I won’t be having more.

Also take note: when it says “Caution Very Hot” on the side, don’t let it spill down your hand in the car. It’s the only thing on the cup that’s true.

Filled with the nation’s poorest excuse for coffee, it’s time to find some. But where? Gatwick, that’s where. Yes, it’s over 30 miles away and 11pm, but who’s counting? Other than the milometer, no one.

Thankfully, around ten miles in comes a sign that shines like a beacon of hope. Just as the wise men must have gazed to the sky, our eyes fix upon the immortal words “Costa Coffee – 1 mile”. We’ve beaten the system; screw you, Bromley, we’re getting our coffee.

One problem remains, what to have? Double Espresso seems a good idea. As soon as we find out what the sweet Christ those other options are, we’ll get one. “So, Mr Coffee Man, what is this fancyschamncy Espresso derivative?” Espresso with cream, you say? Seems it could have just said that ad saved a bit of everyone’s time. Pretentious titles aside, we’re handed our teeny, tiny cups with matching teeny tiny lids and enjoy.

Now, try sleeping.

Every day, we look at automatic doors like they owe us something. We stand and stare, wondering what’s taking them so long to open. After all, we’ve got places to be and they’re standing right in our way. But have you ever considered the doors’ feelings for a moment?

There they stand, every day, under the illusion of being automatic, but they have no free will. Cursed to remain closed until a passer-by wishes to pass through them without giving a second thought to the door, its story or even how shiny it’s looking today. They constantly open their arms to us, revealing an emptiness that people merely pass through, day in day out.

Ever since the first automated door as we know it was created around the 50s, this neglect has taken its toll. Shopping centres, supermarkets, offices and leisure facilities around the globe now house the saddest of beings. If we’re not careful, we’ll be faced with automatic door depression of epidemic proportion. People will be unable to get in or out of buildings – able to see the good on the other side, but never get to them.

What we’ll end with is more and more occurrences like the man who fatefully had to exit one such sad door using his head. Literally his head. So maybe we should, just once, ask the doors how their day is going, before it’s too late to get into Lidls.

Goodbye, happy shopper
I love to see you go.
Perhaps you’ll speak to me
When I open again tomorrow.

As a child back in the dark-ages, my own Gran was forced to have her left hand tied behind her back. By doing so, her school hoped to convert her into a lowly right-handed person, believing left-handedness was some kind of precursor to evil. All I have to say is: Hitler was right handed.

Perhaps this was taken into account, because by the time I reached school I even had my own dedicated lefty scissors. They looked less vicious that the pointy, metal right handed stabbing implements and even has multi-coloured handles. In fact, these left-handed tools were so superior, all the right-handed kids and their devious itchy fingers nicked them.

There’s long since been a debate whether left-handedness represents anything significant. Are they evil or genius? Obviously the views of the right-inclined will sway towards evil. However, let’s look at the facts. Ignoring obvious people such as Hendrix, there’s Nietzsche, Robert De Niro and even my hometown man, H. G. Wells. And again, Hitler – right handed.

Something could be said about ambidextrous people. But then I look at Michael Angelo Batio (guitar shredder) and think it would be better not to. So I’ll leave it at this left-handed is correct handed, right-handed is wrong handed.

Santa Claus is coming, you’ll get square eyes and yes, those are mummy and daddy balloons: the stories parents tell theirs kids. These are commonly also known as lies. Pure parental lies dreamt up to maintain control of the little ones through fear, confusion and excitement.

Such actions, seemingly based on the tactics of politicians and PR companies, led me to believe that if I pulled that face once more the wind really would make it stay there. Do you think a child of seven really needs that pressure? There’s a world of shiny things and bubbles to get distracted by. But no, here is a boy that’s stuck pondering the very (seemingly) real possibility that his appearance could be changed forever by the slightest gust of wind.

It’s lucky I was a reasonably honest child, else I would have lived in constant turmoil thinking a wolf was soon to consume me. At least that particular tale had a moral stand point.

So, yes, there are positives to lying on an almost constant basis to children. In a way, it could be said to constantly feed and nurture their imagination. For example, the thought that fairies might live down the garden or that cash machines contain little elves that fetch your money. A nice idea – until they learn the truth.

I’m sure we all wish there really were elves in the ATM. The world would probably be a bit better. But there aren’t. So imagine going from truly believing such a fact and then having it shattered with the banal truth. Whilst these tales have helps build a wild imagination, they can also set the innocent mind up for inevitable disappointment.